


got your finger on the trigger (but your trigger finger's mine)

by goldenzingy46



Series: Tomarry Works [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Complete, Heavy Angst, Help, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot Twists, Sad Ending, Temporary Character Death, apparently i didn't tag with angst???, but there IS some form of magic, it's after the final linebreak of ch3, just not on earth, listen i guarantee that this is angsty, no regrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:28:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26548282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenzingy46/pseuds/goldenzingy46
Summary: Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.Harry dies.Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.Harry dies.Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.Harry dies.Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.Not this time.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: Tomarry Works [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091711
Comments: 74
Kudos: 112





	1. Chapter 1

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

The bullet speeds ahead of him, and he watches the bullet pierce Harry's heart, watches Harry fall backwards, watches Harry die.

He loves Harry. He loves Harry with all his heart, would never hurt him, would die for him, would do anything for him.

He watches Harry plead for his life.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Harry clasps Tom's arm, begs him to please, _please_ not hurt him, promises him the world-- Tom doesn't want the world, only Harry, Tom would do anything for Harry.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Tom remembered meeting Harry. He'd been so bright, so happy, so brilliant - like a ray of sunshine.

So pure. So pretty.

Some days, Tom things he might have been in love with Harry since they first met.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

"Tom! Tom! You'll never guess what we found! A new ice-cream place - they have your favourite. Wanna join us?"

Nobody had ever bothered to learn his favourite ice cream flavour before.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Harry was smiling, so happy. He loved Tom just as much as Tom loved him.

Which was more than anyone would ever believe.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Harry runs through the grass, laughing. Tom remembered the first time Harry had done this with him, how delightful the feeling of wind through his hair was. _Goddammit_ , he loved him.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Tom and Harry first kissed each other drunk, at a party. Harry had avoided him for a week afterwards, and then apologised. _Apologised_ , like Harry should apologise for doing exactly what Tom wanted.

They'd never kissed again.

Admittedly, Tom was too scared. He loved Harry, and he didn't want to ruin their beautiful friendship-- their beautiful, unlikely friendship that had somehow blossomed over Tom falling into a river. (This was so precious to him that he let Harry tell people about his Most Mortifying Moment of all time. Anything with Harry was precious, though. Harry was precious.)

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

A bullet speeds into Harry's heart. He falls, that terrible, horrible, sad expression on his face as he died forever engraving itself into Tom's heart.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Tom watches Harry die.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Harry dies.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Harry dies.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Harry dies.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Harry dies.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

_I don't want this._

The bullet skims over Harry's shoulder, Tom's aim just off his mark.

Harry is _alive_.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

***

Perhaps you're wondering how the cold, elusive Tom Riddle became so close to literal ray of sunshine Harry Potter?

Well, let me enlighten you.

Tom was skipping stones, sitting on the river bank, cursing his father's name, and Harry had been there - well, he was there for some reason, he usually was. Harry hadn't meant to crash into Tom and send him tumbling into the icy waters, but he did, and Tom ended up getting pulled up by a weed with glasses who had no right to have that much strength.

"Hi, I'm Harry Potter. Sorry about knocking you into the river - my house isn't far from here. Would you like a change of clothes?"

The audacity of this boy, this sunshine boy, with these earnestly shining eyes and concerned expression.

Tom had said yes.

The rest, as they say, was history.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Salt burns his eyes as he tries to ignore the tears streaming down his face, the barely audible chokes of "Harry, Harry I'm sorry, please forgive me, I'm sorry," that kept streaming out.

"I'm sorry," Tom whispers. "I don't want this. I love you."

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Hell was a dismal place, and Tom hated it.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yes, hell is inspired by the hell in lucifer. what are you gonna do?

Hell had been positively _gleeful_ when Tom Riddle joined.

So much guilt, so much self-hatred, so many weak spots that'd make him fold over, so much love, wrapped up in one neat package-- and not just that, but all of these were tangled together, a simple tug and Tom would fall apart.

And this was Hell, and Hell could do it again, and again, and again.

How long would it take for Tom Marvolo Riddle to truly break?

There was one particularly raw memory, for this mortal.

Stone-cold, unblinking, Tom raises the gun and pulls the trigger.

Harry collapses like a ragdoll, words broken on his lips and limbs useless, eyes staring at nothing, all with that look of emptiness and hurt on his face, and something in Tom breaks.

Hell likes. It will have to do it again.

The first time, Tom closes his eyes for a second, doesn't let his upset show. Friends and family alike call him a heartless psychopath, a murderer, a betrayer.

Tom doesn't let his hurt show.

It takes forty-seven times before Tom sheds a single tear. So many barriers. So much fun.

The faces of people he knows blurs into faceless figures, and all of them slash him with their words, impossible sharp and bitter and coming from his own guilt.

Harry's corpse chokes expletives, begs him for life far too late, looks so _disappointed_ and Tom crumbles.

He breaks down over his body, tears and apologies and everything he stood for. He curls up, away from the confrontation that always follows, content to sob and blame himself for eternity.

Tom rises up, the comforting weight of the gun in his hand, light gleaming off of the barrel. He is cold and unmoving, and he doesn't twitch as he levels the gun with the heart. He aims, and he presses down on the trigger. He knows he will not miss.

He pulls dow-- wait.

Too late.

The gun goes off, and Harry hits the floor. Tom gives up.

There are two ways out of your little spot of torture.

The first, of course, is that you go to Heaven, you realise your guilt is for nothing, that is it _okay_.

The second is that you become desensitised. You kill someone so many times you don't even flinch. The insult of "Monster," and "Evil" bounce off him and Tom is so very cold. And Tom Riddle is powerful, and he isn't going to care.

Tom raises the gun and pulls the trigger. He does not flinch. He turns to meet the faceless crowd and doesn't flinch as they rain down fists and words.

Tom raises the gun and pulls the trigger-- his aim is off. Tom Riddle is cold, and he doesn't care, but he is strong. Powerful.

The bullet whistles over Harry's shoulder, and Harry hisses angry words, but Tom doesn't care. Merely tightens his hold on Harry's wrist and drags him away.

"Tom, let me go, you monster. I thought you loved me."

Tom doesn't blink. Doesn't flinch.

"That's why I'm doing this."

Again and again, Tom overpowers Hell. Harry whispers "I love you," into the dead of the night, Harry doesn't die. Tom is _winning_.

Hell is a game and Tom Riddle refuses to play.

Hell knows Tom thinks that if he keeps his walls up, feels no guilt for what he did, then he thinks he'll be safe.

He is wrong.

Hell has many ways of punishing its sinners, and they've barely even begun.

Tom is using the familiarity of the situation against his guilt, overpowering and twisting and warping. Hell knows ways around that.

The whole of the town falls apart at the seams, and Hell sees the flicker of delight on his face for a single second.

Good. Still breakable, then.

Tom Riddle stand alone at the centre of a desert, with only sand to be seen for miles. No water, no food, no plants, no people.

He starts to walk, head held high and eyes narrowed, determined.

He walks for hours and hours, no sign of night returning, only the endless, burning sun. Hell puts a bit more pressure on him, raising the temperature to a level akin to Death Valley.

Tom walks through the desert, and his walls start to break.

Hell sends sandstorms directed at his eyes, his mouth, and Tom can't swallow because his mouth is too dry. His stomach rumbles, and he staggers, eyes burning from the sand and the grit.

Hell makes him want to move, to flee, yet he lies there on the sand and suffers silently.

Hell leaves him there, watching, waiting. Hell lets the sand die down, slowly, offers Tom a single drop of water - but not like that. Tom stumbled into a banquet, but he could taste the first second of every piece of food, so painstakingly made to be addictive, and then it turned to ash.

Tom Riddle was breaking, shattering, and Hell watched and Hell _laughed_.

At some point, a green-eyed boy flickered in Tom's memories-- and Tom _remembered_.

His guilt returned, and he unfurled, no sign of the torture he'd been through, feeling the comfortable weight of the gun in his hand, light shining off of the barrel as he raised it. He aimed, and he knew he would not miss.

He pulled the trigger.

Harry tumbled to the ground like a broken ragdoll, and Tom Riddle _screamed_.

***

Tom is panicking, searching for a seam that will let him out, desperate, fingers clawing at all too familiar tiles, _letmeoutletmeoutletmeout_.

There is only one way out for him, and he's not looking in the right place.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Tom lifts the gun and pulls the trigger, feels a stab of pain and sees a door - just for a second, mind you, but he reaches for a handle he cannot see and _trusts_ that he can make it, and steps outside the cell.

The door thuds shut behind him, and he ignores the pull driving him into the room.

He walks.

The corridors here are made of stone and are grey, ash falling from the ceilings and the uncomfortable heat wrapping itself round him, the pungent stink of sulphur crawling into his nostrils.

There are many doors, many people. He looks in, but he only sees them sitting blankly on the stool, staring ahead. Sometimes, he'll see people half jerk up from it, and he'll think _fight. Fight it, I believe in you_ \- but they never do. They sit back down, succumbing to the all-consuming guilt.

He saw someone go to Heaven, once. She stepped out of the room, marching up the stone steps, so certain of where she was going.

Tom peeked into her room, seating himself on the stool and allowing himself to replace her in her loop.

"Katrina!" they called.

Tom was not Katrina; Hell did not force him to go.

He went anyway.

He partied, saw a golden-haired girl, and understood. Katrina was in Hell because she felt guilt for not telling this girl that she loved her, for marrying a man she didn't love.

Tom went along with it anyway.

He kissed a girl he did not know, he did not love, and he felt repulsed. Guilty. He backed out, the scene fading, swinging open the door and slamming it shut.

Never again.

Only his Harry, who he was not worthy of.

That did not matter now.

He walked into multiple rooms, _cells_ , stood to the side and watched people suffer. There were the truly twisted, sick and depraved, torturing people and laughing as they died, then there were ordinary people simply holding too much guilt.

Tom was neither of these.

Tom was a murderer, a murderer of Harry. He remembered walking there, unflinching, of raising the gun and aiming, of Harry, Harry's sharp, cruel words seconds before he fired.

Tom was a perfect shot.

He had known he would not miss.

Tom remembered letting the gun fall to the ground, uncaring of his prints. Someone would report the robbery soon enough, and Tom did not have a license - someone would put it together.

Tom remembered walking past the crowds, ignoring the cries of "Monster! You _monster_! Murderer!"

He remembered walking back to his office and sitting down at his desk.

He remembered going back to work like nothing had happened.

Tom had treated Harry's death like nothing.

He walked back in the direction of his cell.

Tom paused next to the room beside his own.

A strangely familiar figure was seated on the stool - it looked like Harry, but it couldn't be Harry, because his Harry would never end up in Hell.

Not his sunshine Harry.

He opened the door.

Hell was replaced by an all too familiar town, an all too familiar room, an all too familiar party.

This was where they had kissed.

He saw the figure - Harry, his Harry - drunk and staggering, go towards Hell-Tom, smiling.

He saw the conversation burnt into his mind replay, saw Harry try to fight the kiss, saw him give in.

Of course Harry regretted this.

Of course.

He watched Harry kiss Hell-Tom, watched Harry avoid him for weeks. Watched Harry walk into that park, knowing, _knowing_ that Tom would raise the gun.

He watched Harry spit the same words he'd never forget.

"Don't you love me, Tom? Only a monster would shoot someone he loved. Someone truly _evil_."

He saw Hell-Tom's face flicker with hurt for a single second, cold mask replacing it as he rose the gun.

Harry crumpled to the floor like a ragdoll, and the party returned.

Hell-Tom lifted the gun and pulled the trigger.

 _Real_ Tom stepped in between it, feeling a stab of pain in his shoulder and hearing Harry's gasp.

" _Tom_?"

"Hello, Harry," he says, trying and failing at a cocky grin. "Long time no see."

***

"Tom, oh my god oh my god oh my god-"

"Harry, Harry, none of this is _real_. Take a breath. Focus on me. I am real."

Harry shudders, gasping. "This seems pretty damn real to me."

Tom flinches as another bullet hits him. "This is _Hell_ , Harry. _Focus on me.”_

Harry stares at him. "Tom, wait."

Eyes searching his face, Tom waits.

"Tom, I need to tell you," he says. "I think it's why I'm here."

"Harry?"

"I'm here because I love you, Tom, so utterly and completely. I'm here because I loved you and I never told you, I avoided you that one time we kissed and I'm so, _so_ , sorry."

Harry is watching him with those wide green eyes of his and Tom has no idea how Harry can think any of this is his fault. "I _killed_ you, how can you love me? How can this be anything but my fault?"

"You heard what I said."

"I _killed_ you, a few insults are nothing!"

Another bullet hits his spine.

"Harry, this is _not_ your fault, but we have to go. Now."

Harry nods, and they reach for the door together.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i made it. i made it to the end

Tom and Harry climbed out of that door, determined. They would be free from the crushing grasp of Hell, free from the guilt. They would have a lot to talk about, of course, how wouldn't they? They were in Hell, in love, oh, and one of them killed the other.

Yet they walked, hand in hand, and they talked. They argued, they made up, they smiled. They kissed.

The first time Tom had sex with Harry was behind a stone pillar, covered in ash.

Tom had stood up flawless, a tiny smile playing along his lips and far too much ash staining his clothes. Harry had stood up, hair wild and lips bruised, but eyes shining with delight.

For the first time, they really believed they could get out of Hell, to have a second chance at life on Earth.

They just had to find the Gates.

***

It had been a long and arduous climb to get to the ridge, but worth it. From here, they could see all of Hell - from the cells for human souls to the palace, to the huge mountain looming in front of them.

Said mountain had a large set of gates mounted on top, and they could almost _taste_ their freedom.

Tom's plan had been to jump off the ridge and run, but Harry had just _looked_ at him, and he'd reconsidered.

He did not want to find out what happened if he was foolish enough to die in Hell.

They had, instead, used a large grey pillar like a fireman's pole, and slid to the ground. Aside from a few friction burns they were unharmed.

They had started to run, kicking up plumes of ash as they went, laughing the whole way across, and, as the old saying goes, the hours and days it should have taken to cross passed quite quickly as they were having fun.

It was a new experience for Tom.

There were odd, almost hand-shaped holes in the side of the mountain, and it was surprisingly easy to climb.

Surely Hell would have stronger security?

They climbed and climbed, and Tom's hand curled around the rock like it had once curled around a trigger.

No.

He would not think of that, not now, not as they finally make their escape.

Eventually, they collapsed on a ledge of rock, laughing, and Harry told Tom tales of ridiculousness that had even him cracking up, here, in the stone-cold halls of Hell. In turn, Tom would tell him stories of his work colleagues and the shenanigans that could happen in the workplace.

They were smiling when they began their climb again, and all was as it should be.

For now.

If you ignored the whole Hell business, at least.

And when they finally reached the top, they stood in front of gates taller than most buildings, wickedly sharp and painted in flawless black from head to toe.

It seemed climbing was still on the agenda.

These gates were nothing like the mountain had been, full of handholds as it was, instead, it was smooth metal, crawling up thousands of feet into the air. It was hard to cling onto and sliding down wasn't an option – well, unless you were up for death.

Surprisingly, Tom was not.

Wrapping himself around the bar, Tom paused to take a breath, sweat dripping from every pore. This was far too much work, and only the desperation to never raise a gun to Harry again kept him going.

Every now and then, his hand would slip against the slick surface, nails grating into what (in the human world) would be paint, but here seemed more likely to be some form of obsidian, teeth gritted and the thought of Harry's body collapsing like a ragdoll in between him and falling, far and fast.

Hand over hand, pause for breath, then again and again and again, fingers slipping and scraping and dragging him up and up and up. The burning in his chest intensified, raw desire for freedom propelling him the last few metres, and then his hands were curled around a spike and he was pulling himself up- _up_ and over.

Harry, on the other hand, was not so lucky.

Harry was sliding down, and Tom reacted. He would not escape alone tonight, and his hands slid through the bars and hauled Harry up, propelling him over. Tom caught him and they glided down the metal, resting at the bottom.

Harry's shirt was slick with blood, blood dripping through his shirt and congealing.

Tom's 'rescue' had only served to hurt him more, spikes impaling him and ripping through his skin.

Tom scooped Harry into his arms - had he always been this light? How much blood did one lose before they started getting lighter? - and ran. He ran and ran like the forces of Hell were on his heels, which, whilst not exactly accurate, was close enough to true.

Harry was dying.

Harry was dying, and Tom had no idea if he could save him.

The cliff-face Tom was running on came to an abrupt end.

There was an almost diving board like ledge and Tom decided that Harry's life was worth the risk.

He jumped, and they fell.

They were falling, the planes of existence blurring around them. Grey became green, and blue, and yellow, and all the normal colours you'd expect to see on Earth.

Colours Tom did not quite believe he'd ever see again, yet here they were.

And of course, the vibrant red of Harry's blood spilling out onto the tile, only a few hundred metres away from when Tom had first raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

Except that was the only time he'd intended to do it.

People were surrounding them, saying this, blurry figures getting further and further away, the panicked shouting and questions turning into a buzzing noise.

"Harry," Tom rasped. "Look after him."

He fainted.

***

When Tom woke up, it was to the brightly lit too-white ceiling of the hospital.

The steady _beep_ of the machines beside him was irritating but necessary if he wanted to see his Harry again. His Harry, probably lying in the next room, fixed up and hooked onto a just as annoying IV, and then one day they would get married - maybe in that church Harry liked so much? The only he said had the right 'vibe', or something.

The nurse came in, saw him awake, and looked terrified.

"Mr Riddle," she said, quietly.

Unless they were going to tell him that he could see his Harry, he didn't care.

"What?"

She curled in on herself. "Mr- Mr. Potter. He didn't-"

She broke off.

"Mr Riddle. Mr Potter didn't survive the surgery."

Tom's entire world turned on its axis.

_Harry was dead._

Was his Harry back in Hell? Kissing a Tom that wasn't real, again and again and again? Or now that he had confessed his love for Tom, had be gone to Heaven?

He'd never have the church wedding that he'd planned so meticulously, never enjoy Devil's food cake with a ring on his finger. Never kiss Harry by the stream where they first met, tuck a dark curl behind his ear or offer up a smile on lazy mornings.

None of this would happen because Harry was dead.

Tom heard the nurse leave the room but didn't quite register it.

His hand rested on his IV drip and, well, Tom thought of Harry, lying stone-cold on the floor of a morgue, eyes sightless and unseeing, still-wet blood dampening his hospital gown.

He pulled it out.

Everything went black.

Tom lifted the gun and pulled the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i DO have the lore for how you die in hell, long version and clip notes version, because sOMEONE on discord was being a bastard about it. anyway

**Author's Note:**

> You could... poke your head into my [Discord server](https://discord.gg/37bXdGW)? I don't bite (much)!
> 
> Alternately, you could pop into my mess of a Tumblr [here](https://goldenzingy46.tumblr.com/), or my writing Tumblr [here](https://goldenzingy46butwriteblr.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Comments and kudos sustain me :)
> 
> [for bribe related reasons, i ask you to go and have a look at user [alfisha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alfisha)'s fics, and they are a damn good writer]


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